


The Wolf Lord

by CorsairLord



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 11:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13340469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsairLord/pseuds/CorsairLord
Summary: Time flows strangely near the end of cycles. Heroes of the future may be villains of the past and onlookers of the present. Kings may find themselves beset by foes long thought dead, only to find that they were the ones who were the foes.And so ‘twas with the end of the Age of Fire, when the Lords of Cinder refused to return to their thrones. The Fire called for a worthy soul to Link the Flame, and it found a ripple in the complicated flow of time that affected the land. It found a soul pure of purpose, a mind of steel, and a body strong of heart.It brought forth the soul's coffin amidst the Cemetery of Ash,  working it's way into the very beginning of the First Age of Fire, until it found the perfect vessel for the soul.It had found Knight Artorias in the days of Gwyn, in the company of his fellow Knights of Gwyn. It had found the next Lord of Cinder.





	The Wolf Lord

Yes, indeed, it is called Lothric,

Where the transitory lands of the Lords of Cinder converge.

In venturing north, pilgrims discover the truth of the old words.

The fire fades and the lords go without thrones.

When the link of fire is threatened, the bell tolls,

Unearthing the old Lords of Cinder from their graves:

Aldrich, Saint of the Deep

Farron’s Undead Legion, The Abyss Watchers

and the reclusive lord of the Profaned Capital,

Yhorm The Giant

Only in truth the lords will abandon their thrones

and the Unkindled will rise

Nameless accursed undead,

Unfit even to be cinder.

And so it is,

That ash seeketh embers.

* * *

 

The Abyss destroys what it cannot corrupt, and corrupts what it cannot destroy.

And so ‘twas for Knight Artorias, one of the Four Knights of Gwyn, known in later cycles as the Abysswalker and the Wolf Knight. He who succumbed to the Abyss and Manus, Father of the Abyss. He who had sacrificed nigh all to save his constant companion, Great Grey Wolf Sif. 

His fate was sealed when he heard of the troubles that plagued old Oolacile, home of Sorceries that dated back to Seath the Scaleless’ first forays into that weird and complex art. How the good people were tricked by a two-tongued serpent to unearth Manus, a human who dated back to the waning days of the War of Flame. And once unearthed, his Dark Soul of Humanity went wild and began to consume and destroy. 

Once he gained a fraction of control, Manus abducted the princess of Oolacile, Dusk for some unfathomable reason. 

Perhaps there was none, no reason or sense in the beast’s actions.

And so, Knight Artorias ventured forth, Sif by his side to end the threat of this Abyss and save the heir to the now consumed kingdom. 

But Knight Artorias was already marked by the Abyss, from his many battles against Darkwraiths and the sealing of New Londo, even his covenant with the few half-witted creatures to protect him from the Abyss could not save him, or Sif. 

And so, Knight Artorias fought and grew weaker, yet pushed ever onward. As he stood the tide against the foul beasts that came from the very Abyss itself, once men who walked the earth, they rained down blows upon him strong enough to shatter his very bones of his sword arm and caused him to drop his mighty cursed blade. 

Knight Artorias fought valiantly. He fought with honour. And in the end, he suffered a fate worse than death to save his beloved friend, Sif. He thrust his greatshield into the ground around Sif, and using the very last of his strength, erected a cleansing aura around the wolf, to protect the pup for as long as need be.

And then Knight Artorias fell. Fell far, fell deep, into the very heart of the Abyss, where it seeped into his once pure soul and twisted it and consuming his mind and body, creating a dark shade bound to the Knight’s silvered armour and azure robes. 

What remained afterwards was not Knight Artorias, Protector of Lordran, The Abysswalker. 'Twas not the brave soul who had fought shoulder to shoulder with Dragon Slayer Ornstein and Lord Gwyn himself. 'Twas not the humble spirit who had found easy friendship with Hawkeye Gough. 'Twas not the loving heart who had raised Sif from barely a cub fresh from the teat of her mother, nor found the strongest of bonds with that of Lord’s Blade Ciaran. 

What remained was a twisted mockery of the hero he was. An unthinking, feral beast that sought only to corrupt and destroy. But 'twas far worse than eye's first perception. Deep inside of that repulsive monstrosity was the true Knight Artorias. Held prisoner within, only able to howl and roar in anguish as he saw how his limbs acted without his command, how they killed the few innocent Undead that came across the abomination. 

All seemed lost. Until one day, one fateful day, the Chosen Undead came upon the beast, clad in the distinctive armor of those elite knights of Astora, with an almost unremarkable longsword. But what made the imprisoned Knight take notice was that feeling, that fierceness of the sun. When he gained the will to peer out to the battle that raged, he saw something miraculous. 

The unassuming knight was wielding Lord Gwyn’s holy spears of sunlight. And was defeating Knight Artorias’ unliving prison with that unremarkable longsword.

Knight Artorias dared to hope, dared to pray that this sun blessed warrior would end this, dared to hope that his suffering was at an end.

After many an hour of toil on the Chosen Undead’s part, Knight Artorias felt himself return to what remained of his body, felt the pain in his sword arm, the strange weight of his sword in his right arm, felt the soft blue robes and cool silvered plate and mail. 

And as Knight Artorias felt himself fade, he let loose a howl, a long, desperate thing. It was a cry of anguish. To have returned to himself, and yet be ripped away again? It was all too much for the Abysswalker. 

But ‘twas not the end for Knight Artorias. Far from it though, it was simply a close to a sad chapter of history.

* * *

 

Time flows strangely near the end of cycles. Heroes of the future may be villains of the past and onlookers of the present. Kings may find themselves beset by foes long thought dead, only to find that they were the ones who were the foes.

And so ‘twas with the end of the Age of Fire, when the Lords of Cinder refused to return to their thrones. The Fire called for a worthy soul to Link the Flame, and it found a ripple in the complicated flow of time that affected the land. It found a soul pure of purpose, a mind of steel, and a body strong of heart.

It brought forth the soul's coffin amidst the Cemetery of Ash, working it's way into the very beginning of the First Age of Fire, until it found the perfect vessel for the soul.

It had found Knight Artorias in the days of Gwyn, in the company of his fellow Knights of Gwyn. It had found the next Lord of Cinder.

* * *

 

Anguish.

That was the last thing Knight Artorias remembered feeling, before the nothing. 

When he awoke once more, he could tell he wasn't that Abyss-tainted horror. He could feel the fluidity of his muscles, the wholeness of his soul. As he arose from the stone coffin he felt the ash come loose from his armour and robes. They too, were whole. The silvered metal was now back to it's magnificent sheen and the heavy silk was still as finely cut as the day it had been made. Then came the most surprising of discoveries. His shield, the same shield that he had used to protect Sif, had found it's way back to his right hand, warm and bright.

Once Knight Artorias stepped out of the coffin, he felt that familiar weight on his back. He immediately grabbed the sword from it's scabbard with a grace that was prenatural. The blade was untarnished, unblemished as if the covenant with the foul denizens of the Abyss never happened. He gave a few practice swings with it and found that it was as if his arm had never broken.

His attention drew to his surroundings after he replaced his blade. Hundreds upon hundreds of coffins of all shapes and sizes, stacked in mounds. He was astounded by it. There was no place in Lordran that he knew of that was like this. 

_Mayhaps, this be a distant land? It would explain the sudden revitalization of myself and mine equipment. But where? And...Sif! Oh, brave pup, hold fast! I will fly like one of Gough’s arrows, swift and assured of target, as soon as I divine whereupon I am._

With a goal in mind, the Knight went forward, each step leaving a large imprint in the ashy soil. Knight Artorias soon came upon a man, cloaked in black. Cautiously, and with his hand on his blade and shield at the ready, he called out.

“Fare thee well, good sir? May I ask thee to entreat with me?”

The only answer Knight Artorias received was an easily blocked sword swing. This gave the Knight a clear look at the man's face. A Hollow, with a listless gaze and off-coloured flesh. There was no hope for one as far gone as this, none. It sent a twinge of pity through Knight Artorias’ heart as he saw the poor creature’s state.

“Alas, thou are far beyond any help I could offer. I will grant thee a quick death.”

With a single, graceful horizontal slash, the Hollow’s head separated from its body, landing a half a man’s length away from the pair.

“May thou find peace.”

Deciding to keep his sword in hand, the Knight strode forth until he found another such Hollow. He didn't exert himself overmuch and gave it a clean death, before he continued on. At the base of what appeared to be a fountain, he found a deceased knight, killed by the Hollows most like. Knight Artorias knelt down beside him and laid his sword down by the knight's feet, never far from his hand. He gently reached out and grasped the smaller knight's shoulder, and offered a wish for some measure of peace to whoever may be listening. 

Knight Artorias then picked up his sword and stood, surveying the rest of the area. He could see several of the black clothed Hollows roaming around, or lying on the ground. With the utmost caution, he stepped carefully towards the crack in the rockface that showed light and a path.

The Knight heard the bolt before he saw it and instinctively lifted his shield to block it. The bolt-a cheap, ill-made thing-splintered into shards as soon as it smashed into the blessed silver shield, leaving nary a scratch.

He turned his head and saw one of the Hollows had hid in the shadow of the rockface and was armed with a rather ragged crossbow. Knight Artorias dropped the point of his blade into the ashen water at his feet and began to run full tilt at the maddened Undead. With his long legs, it took less than five seconds to come within range of the Hollow, all the while it was still reloading the crossbow. Using the forward momentum of his body, Knight Artorias threw himself into the air and spun end o’er end before slashing downward mightily with his blade, simultaneously crushing the Hollow under the sword’s incredible weight-for a human-and near cleaving the once-man in twain.

It was an unnecessary way of killing the Hollow, but it confirmed to Knight Artorias that he was himself once more, that he could be the Knight that slew Dragons and walked alongside Lord Gwyn again. If he had been unable to perform his signature, swift and high risk attacks, he would have gone on, but it would not have been the same.

He continued to walk towards the crack of light until he came upon a slim path, one that overlooked a vast cloud covered a great valley that led to simply massive mountains beyond.

“By the Flame...mine eyes hath deceived me through some foul sorcery or I am not in the land of Gwyn anymore.”

Looking over the edge he could see naught but grey clouds and glimpses of the cliff’s face, farther down.

Turning away from it, Knight Artorias saw a thing most odd. A large, red-hot twisted greatsword was stuck fast in what appeared to be a small pile of ashen bones, with small embers occasionally soaring from the strange blade.

_Who would wield such a blade? And what heat! I can feel it from here...but there is something familiar about it. I wonder…_

Knight Artorias walked closer towards the ash pile and felt compelled to reach out to the greatsword’s hilt. As soon as his hand came close enough to touch it, flame shot up from the pile of ash and streaked up the sword, causing a large outburst of embers to fly skyward.

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
